“No guet-apens, but the grass, sir,” said he, “must explain my soft approach. This lady speaks truth. You are mistaken in her.”
Chesterfield’s eyes glared red through his vizard holes. He sneered horribly.
“If I were mistaken before, sir,” said he, “judge what I may be now.” Then he turned with a whirl on the other. “Is this the way you hope to convince me against your shameless perfidy? But you are betrayed, madam, as much in your purposed visit here as in the object of your wanton escapade. Will you still pretend you do not know your husband?”
“Indeed,” she said, “I know him very well.”
He uttered an oath.
“Then you know his way with villains”—and, white with passion, he whipped out his sword.
They were all standing apart, screened by shrubs from the general view. For the first time the lady showed some trepidation. She moved hurriedly to interpose herself.
“For shame! Put it up,” she said. “I tell you again you are mistaken.”
“And you may say it a hundred times,” he cried, “and I shall not believe you.”
“Sir,” said Hamilton frigidly, “I too wear a sword, though I have not drawn it.”